


hold on to anything

by JackyM



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'm not British but I did my best with the vernacular and such, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Past Abuse, Turn off the lights and roll down the screen, You're about to see a PROJECTION
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25036843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyM/pseuds/JackyM
Summary: Jon goes with Martin to visit his mother.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Martin Blackwood’s Mother, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 230





	hold on to anything

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an AU I have with logicalDemonness!!!! For context it's mostly the same, Season 5 just doesn't happen. There's some other changes here and there. One of those changes is Martin's mom is still alive, because it means he can learn to understand and cope with it better than he did in canon, I think. ;w; ;;;
> 
> In advance this is definitely a heavy fic because it's a lot of my own experiences so please take care of yourself when reading this!!! I dissociated like three times writing this.
> 
> I'm using lowercase titles for my fics now I guess??? It adds a little...........lo-fi charm???

Jon “casually” brought up accompanying Martin to visit his mother, but the question had the cadence of a question with a lot of thought put into it, so it hardly sounded casual at all. It was clear Jon had been thinking about it for a while, and had deliberated with himself even bringing it up at all. Martin thought about it for a moment. He would’ve been lying if he were to say he didn’t want any company. But he would’ve been lying still if he said that he wanted his mother to meet Jon, of all people. His mother had never been particularly kind to people he met on his own, had never been respectful of their role in his life. She never hesitated to remind him how little he mattered to them. Martin couldn’t bear to hear her say that about Jon, to hear her tell him that _Jon_ , of all people, didn’t love him. But after a moment, he shrugged, and nodded. He felt selfish for it. But he didn’t want to endure the long, lonely commute back, the opposite of comfort, the opposite of home. 

Besides, he figured, he could just tell her Jon was a friend, or a coworker, or _something_ . She didn’t need to know. Just because Jon was with him didn’t mean Jon was _with_ him. She couldn’t say anything if Martin just insisted they worked together. Which wasn’t even a lie, not really. It had been true, once. He could give convincing enough explanations for why Jon was there. Jon didn’t even need to come in with him, he could stay outside, his mother wouldn’t see him, and everything would be _fine_. 

Martin had been quiet most of the commute there, and Jon didn’t press for conversation, and Martin was grateful for that. A few times his fingers found Jon’s hand, slipping between Jon’s as if to reaffirm that they were still there. The train was quiet, less crowded than usual. Occasionally Martin would exhale before feeling for Jon’s hand again, thumb and pinkie clasping at Jon’s knuckles. It was quiet, though Jon was certain he was the only person who could hear the small, sad, resigned noises Martin was making. He reached his other hand out to rest on Martin’s cheek, and Martin’s faraway gaze shifted to him. Martin gave Jon a sad smile, and rested his other hand on Jon’s, and his gaze seemed closer, focused on someone he could see right next to him. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

"You don't...you don't _need_ to come."

"I know."

"Yeah, but...like, if I pressured you, or...or _made_ you feel like you needed to..."

"You didn't. I promise you didn't. I just...I see how you get when you get home, and...I thought it might help."

"It...yeah, I, I think it will. Thanks. I just...god, I. I’m sorry if,” Martin averted his eyes, “I’m sorry, if, if things don’t go well.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, and narrowed his eyes, concerned. “Do you think they will?”

Martin sighed and leaned his head into Jon’s hand, closing his eyes as he did so. “I don’t...I don’t know. It's hard to know with her. Just. If they do.”

“I understand. Let’s hope they go well, then.”

“Y-yeah. Let’s hope.”

* * *

It was quiet in the nursing home too, almost more quiet than it had a right to be. Martin didn’t say anything from the moment they walked in, and forced his hands into his pockets. He hated being here. The lights were too bright, the floor too squeaky, and it smelled like chemicals and something else more artificial. Maybe it smelled like the fake care so many of the staff here output for its patients, like the feigned concern family members showed their ill, lonely relatives. Family members like children, like siblings, like parents, even. 

_Like me._

But more than that, he hated remembering why he needed to come _here_. Because he’d never done enough for her, so she was forced to come here. To a nursing home. It wasn’t even a home, not even a bit. Just a place that she lived in, that she had spent years in now. The fact that “home” was even part of the name was almost cruel. He knew that his mother hated it here, but he knew also that there was no chance in convincing her to let him help her find a place elsewhere. Or let him help her at all, really. 

This always bothered him. And it would probably continue to bother him, for as long as the two of them lived. It filled him with hate, for the circumstances, for all of the small moving parts that made up the relationship he and his mother found themselves sharing.

 _You’re not being fair_ , family would remind him, _because she’s not doing well right now._

 _It’ll get better,_ they said, _just wait until all of this blows over._

 _It’s not her fault,_ family members used to say, before they gave up on the both of them, _you can’t blame her for this. It’s not her._

On very quiet terms, terms he rarely admitted to himself, he wasn’t sure how much he liked being around his mother. For acting as though it was his decision to put her in a nursing home when she’d insisted on doing it herself, because she didn’t think he was doing enough for her. For putting herself in pain all because she just refused help from him, for being too stubborn to admit she knew her son could help. For having violent outbursts, for scaring him to tears, and never apologizing for them, glossing over them as though they never happened. 

But those sparse occasions where he silently admitted to himself how much he hurt because of her were vastly outnumbered by the times he hated himself more. 

He hated himself for not doing enough for his mother, for not loving his mother enough, for being a wretched excuse of a son who couldn’t just love his mother despite how difficult she was sometimes. For thinking that his mother didn’t love him when he knew she did, when he could remember in perfect clarity moments where she genuinely seemed like she cared, even if he knew those moments were always, _always_ , fleeting. For experiencing small moments that reminded him she loved him, and then turning around and feeling upset about the times she lashed out at him for reasons beyond her control. 

The walk from reception to her room was slow, and it was painful. The silence in the nursing home was thick now, almost oppressive. Jon felt Martin’s palms start sweating, felt him begin tensing up, but he remained quiet. A part of him wished they were talking, anything to silence the loud urge in his head to just know how Martin was feeling, but he was well enough aware that wasn’t an option, and it wasn’t right, either. 

When they reached his mother’s room, Martin stopped, tensed, and guided Jon away from the door.

Jon looked at him with gentle confusion. “Martin--”

“Don’t…” Martin said, quietly, “don’t come in with me, alright? And don’t...don’t _look_ either, okay? I mean it. Don’t, don’t look in any way, regularly or like, in that other way.”

Jon frowned. “Is this…? Martin, look, if you need me to go, I can. It’s fine. I understand”

“No, that’s...I don’t want you to go, either. I don’t. I just...I don’t want you to meet her. I don’t want her to know about you, a-at least, not yet. I, I don’t know what she’ll say, and, and she’s always been...I...I don’t know, difficult, about people I’ve met on my own. I don’t know what she’ll say, to you, or about you, and...I’m just...I’m not ready for her to meet you yet, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon’s hand drifted over Martin’s, “alright. I understand. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

“...You’re not going to...to _listen_ , are you?”

“No, no, of course not. I’ll, I’ll listen to an audiobook or something, okay? I won't.”

"This is...really personal, Jon."

"I know. It is. I won't look."

Martin leaned in and embraced Jon, gently. He buried his nose into Jon’s shoulder, and for a moment let his sensory input become the hug he was in. He felt Jon’s arms softly reach around his shoulders. He heard Jon mumble something quiet and supportive, he smelled the body wash Jon had used last night, which was his own, and not Jon’s. He made a mental note to gently scold Jon about it later, because it was cute when Jon did things like that and fervently tried explaining himself in the most dramatic of terms. He loved making Jon say that he just enjoyed smelling his boyfriend all day, because he was deeply in love. And because Martin was just as guilty for stealing Jon's body wash occasionally for the same reason.

Martin didn’t want to pull away, but he knew he had to momentarily, because he didn’t have forever to put off speaking to his mother. 

When they finally pulled apart, Martin righted himself and sighed, walking over to the door and knocking on it. The “come in” was tired and unwelcoming, as though she knew just by the knock who it was. Actually, she probably did. Martin’s knocks were always quiet, gentle, nonthreatening. He did that on purpose. Too hard and she shouted something about him being too loud, about how horrible his attitude was. He shouldn’t have been all that surprised, really. Of course she knew who it was. 

The door felt heavier than it needed to be when Martin pushed it open. It felt like it was taking forever to move it, and maybe it was. He knew she didn’t want to see him, and he hated himself for wanting to see her. Because he wasn’t sure if he did, completely. He wanted to see her in the way a son should want to see his mother. In the way a person who is caring and full of concern would want to see someone who wasn’t doing well. He wanted his mother to see a concerned son, despite the harsh reality that she’d likely never see even a glimpse of that. But couldn’t bring himself to stop hoping for it just yet.

When their eyes met, it felt the way it always did. His mother looked at him, tiredly, bitterly, and Martin tried his best to not feel hurt by this, to come across as nothing more than small, unassuming, compassionate, _nonthreatening_ . Splayed out across delicate thread but holding onto it, desperately trying to keep it together in the gentlest clinging he could manage. He told himself, he tried to tell _her_ , that he was here because he wanted to be, that there was a connection he was trying to maintain, that maybe, there was something between them worth saving. Neither had said anything yet, but Martin looked at her and pleaded as loudly as he could. He knew full well it was like lighting a match in thick, damp fog, but he kept trying to reignite it, determined, determined to get _somewhere_. 

His pleas went unnoticed. 

It was a while until his mother finally said something.

“Martin,” she sighed, quietly, exhaustedly, “what is it?”

“N-nothing, Mum,” was Martin’s response after a second or two to collect his thoughts, “I just...I just wanted to see um, to see how you were doing. I...I know it’s...it’s been a while s-since, since I last came here, and, I...I was, I was um, I was worried about you, that’s, that’s all.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“ _Fine_ , Martin.”

“Do you...um...do you need anything?”

“No. Not from you.”

“B-but you...you...l-last time I was here, you said that they weren’t--”

“I said not from you.”

“Right, right. Okay. Sorry,” Martin looked away, and sighed, and shrunk against the door. He didn’t want to look like he was anxious to leave, but he was, if he was being honest with himself. He bit his inner lip and looked at his mother again. She’d closed her eyes and seemed intent on not noticing him. She looked so tired, her eyes sunken in and her body trembling, her complexion pale and clammy. She looked as though any kind of external stimulation might crack her in half, breaking her. It hurt to see her like this, because she was his _mother_ , because she used to be so _scary_ sometimes. There were times when, after getting woken up, she'd shout things at him he knew, even then, weren't normal, not for anyone, let alone someone's mother. She'd call him names, she'd throw things, she'd almost break things, she'd do whatever it took to make Martin regret waking her up, and refuse to let him help her afterwards. 

She’d always _insisted_ that she didn’t need help. He felt guilty, guilty for knowing he’d leave, leave her _here_ , and for knowing that she’d stay here for all the weeks he’d spend between now and his next visit. He was helpless to do anything, he knew he was, but he ached for a way to do something that might ease the pain of sickness and loneliness, tied together into something even more abhorrent than its parts.

The clock in the room ticked, so regularly it was only part of the silence of the room it was in. It strung itself out, making Martin feel as though the mere meters he was from his mother were simply an ineffable distance. It was several moments before either of them spoke again.

“Why...why are you _here_ , Martin?”

“I-I...I told you why, I...I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You don’t need to come all the way here to see how I’m doing.”

“W-well, no, but, I, you...you don’t, you don’t answer when I call, so I...I figured--”

“I can...I can barely _sit up_ , Martin. I’m in a lot of pain. I can’t talk to you on the phone.”

“Sorry, I, I just...I don’t...I don’t want to bother you coming here, I just...I want to make sure that you’re not like, like, _dead_ , or something.”

His mother huffed a weak laugh. “I didn’t think that would matter to you. It never seemed to before. Or recently.”

“T-that’s not--”

“I don’t enjoy rotting here, Martin.”

Martin sighed and wished for the life of him that he could just vanish from her sight. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door. He didn’t know what to say, so he said what he always said, what always seemed to diffuse a situation best, because it wasn’t something that could start an argument. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No. You don’t know. You’re not sorry. If you were I wouldn’t be here.”

Well. Not usually, anyways. 

“No, that’s...that’s not fair, I, I told you when you, when you wanted to come here that--”

“You chose not to do enough. You chose to not listen, to forget things, to just _leave_ me here. You’re just...” she trailed off, but Martin knew what she wanted to say, and it made his stomach twist in inconceivable shapes. His mother sighed, shakily, and shut her eyes again. She looked even more exhausted than she had before, and Martin cursed himself for being the cause of that. As much as he didn’t want to leave, and wanted to at least try and end things on an at least _neutral_ note, he was well aware he wasn’t getting anywhere. Maybe she was just having a bad week. Maybe she’d be better in a few days. She was always like this, ebbing and flowing in how she was feeling. Martin gave her a few moments. Then he sighed, dejectedly, tiredly. Not wanting to exhaust her any further with talking, Martin mumbled a farewell before reaching for the door and opening it. 

Jon was right outside, which Martin wasn’t expecting, and Martin startled at this. As small and contained as his reaction was, purposefully, his mother’s feebly voiced question startled him more than Jon’s presence had.

“Martin...is someone there? Let them in.”

Martin jumped, and shooed Jon away from the door.

“N-no, no, Mum, no, it’s...it’s not...it’s not, it’s not um, not the staff or anything. It’s, um, it’s, it’s nobody.”

“I’m not stupid, Martin.”

Martin and Jon looked at each other. Jon at Martin apologetically, Martin at Jon panicked, but determined not to let that show to anyone but Jon. He had this under control. He knew he did. She didn’t need to know. It was easy enough to lie to her about it; he had more than enough excuses. “It’s...it’s just someone from work, that’s all. He, uh, he, he drove me here. And we’re going, right now, so--”

“He...he drove you here…”

“Yes, and we’re leaving, so--”

“And stayed outside of the door the entire time.”

“Traffic,” Jon interjected, poking his head in, “because of traffic. You, ah, you know how the M25 can get, especially this time of the day.” 

Martin’s mother looked at Jon, quizzically. Jon returned her gaze, and stifled the almost roaring urges he felt pushing against his willpower like a heavy force against a wooden door, desperate to _understand_ , desperate to _know_ . He wanted to reach for Martin’s hand, to squeeze it, because it always reminded him of the physicality of boundaries, of the fact that he needed to keep it all back, for _their_ sake. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t, so he clenched his fist and shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

“So you...know Martin from work.”

It took Jon a moment for the question to even register, and tried not to act like he only sort of heard the question. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I’m sorry you had to drive him all the way here...what...what’s your name?”

“Jon. Jonathan. It’s Jonathan. And it was no trouble, really. I don’t mind.”

“Nobody...needs to drive their _coworker_ around, Jonathan. Especially when their coworker...does not need to be driven around. Ridiculous, really. You’re a very tolerant person.”

“Yes. I suppose I am.” Jon looked at Martin, who looked like he was about to be sick. Jon sighed, hurt by Martin’s mother’s implications, but truly incapable of doing anything. 

He wanted to do something, anything. Speaking out against Martin’s mother being only the mildest of his urges at the present moment. Another part of him wanted to let her know how much she was hurting her son. How every time he came back from visiting her, he’d be quiet and _small_ for the entire evening, as though he was terrified of his own physicality. When he did speak, it was mostly apologies. When he finally decided to talk to Jon about how his visit was, it was clear the visit had been unpleasant, and nothing Martin ever did could change that. Jon struggled to quiet that part of him even more, even as he felt the very core of his being, of what he’d become, of what he wasn't, of what he was, begging to make the cause of Martin’s pain feel the consequences of what she'd done. 

But he couldn’t do that, and wouldn’t. Martin wouldn’t choose to resolve any of this that way, and it wasn’t up to Jon to decide how he should resolve anything. 

Instead, Jon reached out for Martin’s sleeve, and tugged at it. It took Martin a few moments to even register this, and when he finally looked at Jon he still looked sick, but now, more distant, like he was anywhere else but here. Tired, almost, but not in the way that sleep could fix. 

“Martin,” said Jon, quietly, “we should go now. The traffic.”

“What?”

“The traffic.”

Martin paused for a moment and blinked before responding. “Oh. Right, right. Traffic.”

“Yes. Traffic,” Jon looked at Martin’s mother, who seemed to be paying little heed to either of them, and Jon mustered up the politeness for a complete and utter lie that he could only hope would carry. “It was nice to meet you.”

She didn’t respond, and Jon sighed, quietly. Martin also sighed, and surreptitiously let his hand brush against Jon’s, in a way that might look accidental, but was purely comfort seeking to the two people involved. He swallowed before addressing his mother one last time. “Do you...Mum, before, I, before I go...do you…do you need anything?”

His mother didn’t respond. Regret scrambled through Martin’s mind, fast and disjointed and horrible. He shouldn’t have come at all, and he shouldn’t have stayed. Maybe he should’ve just left as soon as she made it clear she didn’t need him here, and he could’ve avoided all of this. Martin knew his visit had to have exhausted her, and every cell in his body recoiled at that thought. His mother didn’t look any better than she had before; worse, almost. It looked like she was in pain just thinking about speaking. Her resting facial expressions were screwed together, the face of mortal resistance every ache and pain she had to go through. 

It took a while until she could finally respond, in a whisper and a gasp. “No. Just leave.”

Martin nodded, guilty and grateful. “Right. Okay.”

And if it had not been for the sheer quiet of the building around them, Martin probably wouldn’t have heard his mother’s final remark. He wished he hadn’t. He wished more than anything else he hadn’t. It wasn’t an aggressive or hateful remark. It wasn’t even disappointment. Just resignation. Grim acceptance. The concept that there was a right and a wrong way to love, and Martin had ineffably chosen the wrong way, because he couldn’t possibly love correctly. That he couldn’t, he simply couldn’t, and there was no way that this would last on this basis. 

“I’m not surprised, Martin. I’m not surprised at all. Of...of course that’s who he is to you. But I don’t think even he’ll be this tolerant of you forever.”

How she even knew was beyond Martin, because he had been careful, so careful, not to let anything slip. But he wasn’t about to even begin questioning how she knew, what he might’ve said that made her figure it all out. 

He felt Jon’s hand on his back, gently pushing him out of the door. Martin would’ve protested about this gesture ordinarily. He could feel the coldness of his mother’s gaze on him, could feel the warmth of Jon’s hand between his shoulder blades. The contrast of the feelings ached, and it coursed through his body, dully, in a way that made him feel sick. There probably wasn’t a point in debating this with her, trying to lead her back the other way and reach a more stable ground between the two of them. Once she’d decided on something it was almost impossible to get her to think otherwise, even if it _wasn’t_ true. Martin had always forgotten something, always not looked hard enough, always not done it exactly how she’d asked him to. There was never any point in debating with her about it. She was stubborn like that. Always had been. 

Martin didn’t say anything as Jon ushered him out, and neither did his mother. Jon didn’t say anything. 

When the door closed behind them, sounding heavier than it had before, Martin turned around and pulled Jon into his chest, with reticence, but also with longing, with a desperate want for comfort. Jon hugged him back, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. Martin’s breathing was shaky, cornered. His hands were trembling, perspiring. Jon didn’t feel like Martin was enveloping in a hug; in fact, it didn’t feel like a hug at all. It wasn’t warm, or soft, or wide, the way Martin’s hugs always were. It felt like Martin was reaching for him, somehow, grappling sightlessly for any thread that could help him. It was feeble, and hurt, and felt so little like Martin it laid wide gashes across Jon’s heart. He had his arms around Martin, gently, wrapped around his waist. It was an embrace that said he was there, and an embrace that said he wouldn’t let go. 

Jon led Martin down the hall, to the nearest bench he could find. Martin leaned into him when they sat down, and Jon sighed and rested his chin in the crook of Martin’s neck. They stayed like that for a while. How long, exactly, was not of a concern to either of them. Eventually Jon’s hands dropped from Martin’s waist, and found their way to his hands, so much bigger than his own, but still so shaky and feeble. Jon looked at Martin, whose gaze was downturned, his eyes wet, glassy, and distant, struggling to come back.

“Martin.”

Jon felt Martin’s hands gently squeeze his own. 

“Martin. I think we should go home now.”

Martin quietly sighed, and nodded. His hands began to slip away from Jon’s, and Jon frowned. He reached up and gently held Martin’s face in his hand, and watched as Martin leaned into it, eyes closed.

“I don’t care about any of...I don’t care about _anything_ she said,” Jon said, quietly, “I...I don’t. None of it matters to me. None of it.”

“You had to…” Martin’s words were shaky and truncated, “but you had to... _Christ_ , Jon, I’m so sorry, sorry you had to...I...I thought I could just…”

“Martin. This isn’t your fault. It isn’t. You don’t need to apologize for something this out of your control. I suppose maybe she has a point, but for the wrong reason. Because I don’t just _tolerate_ you, Martin. You...you know that.”

Martin nodded, sniffling, trying to smile. “Yeah...yeah. I...I do know that. You. You love me. And I love you, too."

Jon leaned in, kissing Martin, gently, comfortingly. Martin kissed him back, softly, shakily, quickly. Moments later Jon got up, and helped Martin up, keeping his hands on Martin's arms the entire time. Martin liked Jon's hands. Long and gentle, like tall blades of grass, reaching out to caress whatever they could with their embrace. He liked seeing Jon's hands around his arm, liked feeling them around his back, feeling his support, his concern. His love.

Martin wasn’t entirely sure how he felt.

He didn’t feel better, not yet. His mother's words had hit him, and hit him hard. It made him ask himself questions he always asked himself, but tried his best to ignore.

He didn’t feel any less guilty. His mother was in a nursing home, and he was leaving her there, again. Leaving. No matter what anyone said, he'd always know he left her. There. Alone. 

He didn’t know how he’d feel later, once he’d had time to process all of this. It was hard to think, hard to feel, hard to remember. His upset, his guilt, his fear, all felt distant in the present, even if he knew it was there. Like something he could reach out and grab, but as soon as he did, it'd dissipate between his fingers like shapes made out of fog. He knew it was real, because it was visible, because it was there. But it was also immaterial, impossible to actually _feel._

He didn’t feel as though things had gone well. Because they most certainly hadn't.

But he knew Jon would be there with him, and right now, at least, that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a baby wolf, because this was a heavy fic and you deserve some happiness. <3  
> 


End file.
